


the connection between us, you feel it! (tell me you feel it!)

by choirboyharem



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Episode: s05e07 Ace Chemicals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-03 18:39:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17883155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/choirboyharem
Summary: The point of all this was for Jeremiah to create a new reality for himself and Bruce. Recreating Bruce’s loss of virginity didn’t fit the timeline and it was sort of cheating, but Jeremiah’s heart was working against him. At his core, he was only human.





	the connection between us, you feel it! (tell me you feel it!)

**Author's Note:**

> there's, uh, there's this. it's pretty fucked up and dark. and a hot fucking mess that probably should’ve had a beta.
> 
> obviously set during ace chemicals; it’s set after the dinner scene with lots of extra non-canon-compliant time.

“As you can see, Bruce, Alfred did a stunning job on your bedroom,” Jeremiah purred, gently rubbing Bruce’s shoulder, pinning him close. Bruce swallowed, his mouth tightening. He was still worried. And that was fine. He had every right to be. He didn’t understand anything about what was to come. "With my help, of course. It just needed a. . . softer touch."

Thomas and Martha, the darlings, made pleasant, excited conversation downstairs about the movie and their golden boy while the butler continued to dust and sweep and fix the kitchen up after dinner, all three keeping themselves busy after Jeremiah had taken Bruce’s hand and led him upstairs. They trusted Jeremiah, of course. They would trust he could never hurt Bruce and could take care of him and treat him like the prince he was. 

Bruce spoke and it took Jeremiah out of his train of thought. “Candles. And. . . and rose—“ Bruce’s voice got lost for a second and he had to find it again, slightly more high-pitched. “—rose petals.” He closed his eyes and parted his lips, giving a tiny, sharp sigh and a shake of his head, trying to work through the situation. His mouth was fascinating to watch. “What—you're not. . . you aren't serious.“

”I’m sure you understand, Bruce,” Jeremiah whispered, leaving Bruce’s side just for a moment to pull the door shut, hearing the lock click from the outside. The butler knew to unlock it in an hour. Bruce looked unsteady, realization coming to him in slow pieces as he took a step back. The confusion warring with dawning horror (what? why?) made him look lost and afraid and it made Jeremiah’s heart ache in turn. 

“We haven’t gotten to the most important moment of _your_ life yet,” Jeremiah continued, approaching Bruce even as Bruce crept backwards. “That’s the main event. That’s tonight, at long last. But this is one of the most important moments in _any_ young man’s life and you deserve to spend it with someone who would do absolutely anything in the _world_ for you.” Jeremiah pulled his gloves off, dropping them to the floor, his eyes falling to Bruce’s mouth again. Bruce’s back hit the end of the beautiful four-poster. “Tonight is the night you make love for the first time.”

”You’re completely insane,” Bruce choked out, his skin turning a shade whiter. He was overwhelmed; it was normal for him to say something unfair or unkind, especially when he didn't seem to be in the mood quite yet, but it still hurt a little. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter. Jeremiah’s leg slipped between Bruce’s soft thighs, the faintest of baby fat still clinging to a young man who’d been forced to grow up years before his time. The bed creaked with Jeremiah's pressure, the attempt to press Bruce against a flat surface, any flat surface as he nuzzled his nose against Bruce's cheek, his skin singing and buzzing underneath his clothes from excitement and fondness. 

"Now, Bruce," Jeremiah murmured, sliding his naked hands down Bruce's sides, kissing the side of his neck, trying to warm him up, "is that any way to talk to your partner in life, in love, in—" 

Jeremiah did sort of expect the hands around his neck, because it was rather typical of Bruce, but not the kick to his shin, so he went down harder than he'd wanted to. Jeremiah yelped as his head slammed against the carpet, feeling the pound against it even with the broken fall and the stars bursting behind his eyes. Bruce grabbed Jeremiah's neck in one hand and punched him square in the jaw with the other, straddling him, his breathing heavy and vocal. Jeremiah's hands scrambled at Bruce's arm and wrist, fingers grabbing it in one and the other grabbing a fistful of Bruce's hair, pulling hard. Rude, rude, rude, rude. Bruce let out a yell of pain, flinching back, and Jeremiah took the half-second of hesitation to jerk him back. 

"Bruce, don't know know what I'm trying to do for you?" Jeremiah, with his chest rising and falling rapidly, cutting his words up, grabbed the front of Bruce's sweater and shove him back against the bed frame. Bruce didn't even try to pause and listen, his fingernails scraping Jeremiah's hands as he flailed and tried to rip away, his skin burning. "Bruce, Bruce, all I want is to become closer to you! As close as two people who love and respect each other can possibly become, intertwined, bound together! Our hearts beating together! I want to be your first!" 

"I don't love you!" Bruce protested, his hair out of place, curls falling over his forehead, almost distracting Jeremiah. "I don't love anything about you! H-how could you—how could you think I would _want_ this? _Any_ of this? Jeremiah, I've _never_ wanted this! Not even when I actually wanted to be friends with you!"

It felt like a tiny, piercing scream in Jeremiah's heart, making him want to cry. Bruce really didn't understand. "Bruce, even if you won't— _listen to me!"_ he shouted when Bruce started struggling again. It was too loud, too harsh, too sudden, but it made Bruce freeze up for at least a second. "You don't have to be my best friend anymore! You don't have to hide any of your deeper, darker feelings from me if we become _more_ than that! I can be your friend, I can be your very best, best enemy, I can become your lover! I'll become anything you want me to be, Bruce, I will, I can become your toy. Your plaything." Jeremiah's breath shook and he felt his insides twist with heat, fingernails driving into Bruce's fluttering pulse points. If he pressed hard enough, he could draw blood and the idea made Jeremiah weak at the knees. See, it didn't matter what Bruce said or what he thought he was saying; Jeremiah was too in love and too forgiving. "I want to hear every little twisted thought you've ever had. I want you to cut yourself open for me so I can see what's inside you." His nails dug in harder and he bit the side of Bruce's neck, his tongue running thickly over the mark. 

"Stop it," Bruce gasped out, his hips giving a strange little jolt. It made a shudder roll down Jeremiah's spine, validation and arousal melding together to create the most evil and most powerful form of power-tripping that seemed to exist in human nature. "J-Jeremiah—"

"Bruce, I want to be your first," Jeremiah breathed. His slacks were getting too tight, especially with the slide of Bruce's hips against his. "It doesn't matter who had you before. I don't care. I don't care if it was that little street rat whore or any of your little midnight girlfriends while you were trying to drink yourself away. I'm yours. I'm your first. Your parents already approve. I treated you to dinner. I know it'd be traditional to see the movie first, but we're a more nontraditional couple anyway, wouldn't you say?"

"You're sick," Bruce managed, twisting his head to the side and trying to lean away, teeth clenched. "You're sick and psychotic. Y-you make me more sick than your brother did. I wish I was in this room with him instead of you," he spat. "At least he didn't try to pretend he _loved_ me." 

That felt like glass getting pushed into Jeremiah's chest. Why? Why? Why bother? Why bring the vile, evil piece of shit up at all? Bruce, what was the _point?_   Jeremiah twisted his hand in Bruce's sweater and pulled him over to the side of the bed so he could throw him on the mattress, his heart thrumming too loudly, drowning out the romance he was trying so hard to maintain, even with the difficulties. Bruce tried to climb off the bed, rose petals picked up by the rush of air and flying around his angel face, but Jeremiah pounced faster. 

Jeremiah's hands curled around Bruce's wrists again and he held him down like prey this time, snarling at him. He wished Bruce hadn't said anything, because Jeremiah felt angry and all he wanted was to be loved and be in love. "Jerome shouldn't mean anything to you or anyone else anymore," he hissed. "Nothing. He's gone. He's dead. I took everything from him that I needed to. He's gone and he's dead and he's rotting and his flesh is turning to ash. You were never his. And you're mine." He shivered and swallowed and sighed, staring at Bruce's anguished, twisted expression. "Bruce, please, please don't—don't talk about him, because he doesn't matter. You're _mine_. He only knew how to cause pain and suffering and disorganized chaos and he hurt you, Bruce, he hurt you so badly, and he liked to, but I hate to hurt you. I don't want to. Bruce, _please_ ," Jeremiah pleaded when Bruce let out a pathetic sob and tried to kick the small of Jeremiah's back, hands still trying to wrench away. "Please, I want you to know what this is like! I _need_ this, I need it for both of us, you need to belong to someone who loves you!"

"Jeremiah, this isn't love," Bruce said, his voice thick and forced, tears beading in the corners of his sweet doe eyes. "You have to listen to— _mnph_."

Jeremiah couldn't stand it anymore. Actions spoke louder than words, so he would have to show Bruce this is what he needed, that this would be good for both of them. This was good. Good. Jeremiah licked over Bruce's bottom lip as he kissed him, whimpering softly against his mouth. Bruce wasn't letting himself be kissed, maybe because he was too stubborn, too shy. He needed a distraction. Jeremiah pulled Bruce's wrists together and held them down with one hand, the other pushing up past the hem of Bruce's sweater. Jeremiah's body hummed like a livewire, overexcited, thoroughly smitten. He traced his fingers over gentle lines on Bruce's chest and stomach, splaying over Bruce's trembling heart, feeling the unsteady beat, wanting to match it. His hand slid over Bruce's stomach and Bruce twitched, a muffled noise hidden against Jeremiah's mouth. Jeremiah used the part of Bruce's lips to slip his tongue through, his head tilted for a better angle. Jeremiah could die right here. He couldn't imagine a purer bliss. 

Or, well, he could if he had both his hands to work with. "How do you feel about bondage?" Jeremiah mumbled against Bruce's hot cheek, unknotting his own tie with a deft hand. "What turns you on, Bruce? I'd love to know."

"Jeremiah, please," Bruce whispered, soft and desperate, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please don't, you’ll regret this, it’s—it’s  going to hurt you. Knowing you did this.”

”Bruce, I made you a _honeymoon_ to replace the emptiness others have tried to fill you with,” Jeremiah said tenderly, wrapping his tie around Bruce’s wrists and knotting them together. Perfect. Like a Christmas present. “How could I possibly regret something like that?” he asked, turning Bruce, narrowly avoiding a kick in the mouth, wishing his chest wouldn’t hurt so much when tears spilled over Bruce’s cheeks. Jeremiah managed to hook the knot over a carving in the bed frame and cradled Bruce’s face in his hands, kissing the wet streaks on his face and the tip of his nose.

“You’ll be in my arms,” Jeremiah murmured, pressing kisses down Bruce’s mouth, chin, the column of his neck. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be mine. There’s no need to cry, Bruce.” He slipped between Bruce’s legs, thumbing the button on his pants. “Now, I think we need to get rid of these. Show off your pretty bones. If things were perfect, of course, I could’ve seen and kissed every inch of you.” He had to ignore Bruce’s little cough and sniffle as he undid the button and zipper. “Oh, I wish you knew how much I thought about you when I was planning your present, when I got to be alone. Sometimes I wasn't even alone. That's how much it burned.” 

“What. . . is. . . love to you?” Bruce’s voice was wrecked and quiet, his lips quivering. “Why does it have to be like this? Do you—“ He hiccuped and a fresh blush spread over his face. “Do you think I want this?”

”Love is complicated, Bruce. Love is life’s greatest mystery.” Jeremiah moved back to undo the laces on Bruce’s shoes. Bruce wasn’t moving quite as much, not fighting with gusto, but Jeremiah still had to be careful and avoid scuffed patent leather. Perhaps Bruce was just being petty at this point. It wasn’t very cute. “Stop being childish; it doesn't become you, and we both know you're better than that. To the point, most people know what they want, but not what they need. Do you understand?"

Bruce's mouth thinned shut as he held Jeremiah's gaze, his eyes rimmed in red. He didn't say a thing. Jeremiah sighed and bent down to kiss Bruce's knee, removing the second shoe. "You'll never have anyone the way you'll have me. I want you to be the only thing you think of when you touch yourself," he said, crawling back between Bruce's legs, pulling the trousers down, dropping them to the carpet. He'd never seen Bruce's eyes look so cold before, not even when Bruce tried to interrogate him after he'd shot the kitty-cat. Another little twinge inside Jeremiah, upon another upon another upon it all. Jeremiah was very, very kind and patient, more than he could've been given credit for. He traced the soft outline of Bruce's cock through his briefs, his heart skipping a beat, his finger hooked under Bruce's collar to reveal his clavicle for a kiss. "I want you to be the only thing you think of when you're with anyone else."

Bruce was set straight on defying him, stuck in a nonverbal state and refusing to move at all, be it positively or negatively. Clearly, Bruce wasn't fond of foreplay. He didn't like kissing, either. The rose petals in Bruce's unkempt hair and the soft glow of the candles on the bedside table gave off far more of a romantic illusion than Jeremiah was receiving. It was very, very sad and both of them needed something better than this. Much more physical. Jeremiah took Bruce's briefs off for him, moving his hips up just enough to work them free. Bruce bit his lip and looked away, unable to really maintain his exposure. It was something. It felt like something.

Jeremiah ran his tongue over his palm and curled his fingers around Bruce's cock, stroking upwards. Bruce was half-hard, sensitive from waning teenage hormones even if his enthusiasm was lacking, and the touch forced a tiny sound from Bruce's mouth before he quickly dipped his head down, his fingers clenching in on themselves, bundled together. Jeremiah smiled and lifted his other hand, putting it on Bruce's cheek. "Bruce," he said gently, brushing the skin with his thumb, "I'm not doing this for myself. I want you to feel our connection on a level beyond intimacy. This is our night. This is truly special." He drew his hand up, squeezing around Bruce's cock before releasing it again, making Bruce's hips jerk and his mouth move. 

"I found something very special hidden away in your dresser drawer, Bruce; I hope you don't mind that I took a little bit of inventory before I got too busy enacting tonight's entertainment," Jeremiah spoke up when he plucked the special something off the bedside table, the candlelight shivering. He laughed, still too overcome with glee as he looked back at Bruce, who chewed his bottom lip and tried to curl in on himself, his legs closed and brought to his chest. "Strawberry-scented! You are _adorable_."

Jeremiah dropped it on the bed and began to undress himself with a flourish, hands fiddling with buttons and silken textures. "I wish you could do this for me," he said, staring at Bruce in abject longing, abandoning his waistcoat. "There's so much that you can't even _think_ to want yet because your mind is still made in every which way but up. Maybe after tonight. . . We'll see." His shoes hit the floor with a thump. His clothes dropped in a mess of hasty folds. And Bruce's eyes flickered up and down before he pointedly looked away again, eyes downcast. 

"You're allowed to look, you know," Jeremiah said with a grin, shifting closer. "Bruce, I'd say it's insulting if you don't." He picked the bottle back up and, not unkindly, opened Bruce's legs again, spreading him wide. Bruce's cock, pink and leaking precum, rested against his thigh, stark against the black he wore up top, and Jeremiah licked his lips as he popped the cap open. "If I may be so bold, I'd say it's really just better for you to do this with me rather than a teenage girl. I'll understand your needs, both physically and emotionally."

"Have you ever just—" Bruce spoke, his voice taut and scratched as he kept his eyes shut. "—just considered the fact that maybe I'm not attracted to you?"

"Oh, Bruce, that's disingenuous," Jeremiah replied, clicking his tongue in admonishment and squeezing the slick onto his fingers. "I _know_ you're attracted to me." He kissed Bruce's cheek and jawline, trying to soften the touch as he slid his fingers over Bruce's hole. Bruce shivered and tugged sharply at the restraints, his blush spreading through his chest. "Or, at the very least, you're attracted to the danger, the pain, the violence, the hunger people like me can create for you. . . You like to get hurt so you can hurt them back. It's not revenge, really; it makes you more of a dopamine junkie. No wonder Jim Gordon's so fond of you."

"That's too presumptuous for even _you_ ," Bruce snapped, his head jerking up. Jeremiah smirked at him and pushed one slick finger inside him, gripping his thigh with a free hand. Bruce's body gave a jolt as he hissed and swore, cutting off whatever newest complaint or insult he had.

Jeremiah beamed at him, sliding his own finger in and out of Bruce. Of course he was tight; this was his first time. Jeremiah would've done anything to be inside him already, but Bruce didn't deserve the pain of it. "Isn't this better than all your rash accusations? We're becoming closer already." He peppered Bruce's face with kisses and giggled quietly at the way Bruce's nose wrinkled. He crooked his finger on his next upstroke and Bruce's mouth fell open in a moan.

"There you are, baby boy," Jeremiah said, his tone soft and lovesick. He slid another finger inside Bruce and felt the way it had to stretch, maybe burn a little, the skin resisting and making Bruce's shuddering cry sound sad. "Shh, shh, come on, just relax. It'll be better for you." 

Bruce looked at him in something like agony. Jeremiah hadn't seen this since the act he'd put on after the infection, with the betrayal, the despondency, the pain etched into Bruce's face. Jeremiah sighed, staring back at him. " _Please_. If—if I. . . for some reason, if I'm not who you want to see, think of me as I was," he whispered. "I'm still the man you knew as your best friend. It doesn't matter that I understand you and Gotham and my own head a little better and I have bigger, brighter, more wonderful ideas. I'm still the one you think you miss." He kissed Bruce sweetly, full of sugar and paint as he pushed his fingers further inside Bruce, buried to the knuckle. Bruce's lips were open and practically begging, red from fading lipstick when Jeremiah pulled back.

Bruce said something so quietly Jeremiah almost missed it.

"Do it again."

Jeremiah's breath stopped for a moment. He hesitated, unsure if he'd really heard it or not, but Bruce kept his line of sight, chin tilted down. He was softer around the edges. Fuzzy and fluffy and small, curls of dark hair falling around him in a halo. 

Jeremiah kissed him again, his heart overflowing. He cupped Bruce's cheek in his other hand and held him close, running his tongue over Bruce's when Bruce finally, finally opened his lips, letting Jeremiah in. Jeremiah could've almost gotten off from this alone, the feeling of Bruce _wanting_ him. Jeremiah sucked on Bruce's bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth and managing to slip a third finger inside Bruce. The resistance was limited, pumping easily. The noises Bruce made sounded kittenish, tiny and timid, but he wasn't forcing himself into silence anymore. It was heaven. It was bliss. It was _everything_ , Jeremiah thought, his stomach full of wonderful flutters like he was developing a crush all over again. 

Maybe it was still a bit too soon when Jeremiah pulled his fingers back out, maybe physically, but he couldn't and wouldn't bring himself to care. His cock ached and his hands shook and Bruce looked more than ready, pulled loose and open with flushed, raw, scarlet skin. 

"Do it." Bruce's fingers hung loosely over the binding on his wrists, his eyes half-lidded, his face, his neck, his collarbone messy with bloody lipstick. "Please," he said, dragged from the depths of his throat. 

And, well, really. Really, how could Jeremiah say no? There wasn't a way to say no. In a position like this, when you were naked or close to it, when all your body wanted was a release, you had to give in because the only other choice was to make yourself suffer. Jeremiah had to. Nothing else mattered. His hasty, shaking fingers uncapped the lubricant bottle a second time. 

Bruce was built like a bird, his hair like heavy down and his limbs lithe and nimble and breakable. If Jeremiah pressed down on his collarbone, it seemed likely to snap. He was every sort of pretty and he wasn't very difficult to hold, so Jeremiah pulled him off the mattress, onto his own lap. Bruce was running on an electric heat, burning, burning. 

"Thank you, Bruce," Jeremiah said, hushed and holy as he fluttered another kiss on Bruce's lips. "I knew this was what you needed." He lifted Bruce's waist, setting a proper angle before sinking him down. 

Jeremiah's fingers pressed deeply into the grooves of Bruce's back under his sweater and into his hip as Jeremiah tried to pull himself back into one piece, gasping and swearing, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , his mind shorting out for a moment. Bruce definitely could've used a minute or two more of prepping, but as soon as he heard Bruce's broken voice saying his name near his ear, Jeremiah decided he couldn't begin to make himself care about that, either. Fuck _fuck fuckfuckfuck,_   _Bruce_. Once Jeremiah was sure he wasn't going to come much too soon, he began to move, rolling his hips, clutching Bruce like he was going to disappear. 

"J-Jeremiah," Bruce moaned, and, oh, God, it was better than anything Jeremiah had imagined before. Elegant fingers meant for turning pages of first editions or mapping out blueprints or holding Jeremiah's hand during the day the world burned grabbed at Jeremiah's shoulders, fingernails sinking in. They bit so nicely, making Jeremiah's teeth clench and his movements jolt off-center for a moment. Yes, _yes_ , _yes_ , lips and tongues and hands and tight and hot and Bruce (why didn't his near-royalty parents bother with a middle name?) Wayne, his _prince_ , his better half. Jeremiah buried his face in Bruce's neck, panting against him, inhaling the scent of the strawberry flavor and the sweat soaked into Bruce's sweater. Bruce was going to smell like him. Taste like him. Jeremiah was going to mark him up. 

Jeremiah bit into Bruce's neck, drawing blood this time. Bruce cried out, his back arching, his tongue falling past his bottom lip. Jeremiah sucked and licked everything he could off Bruce's skin, whimpering, his movements smooth and deep. Not too harsh, never too harsh. The biting was affectionate. The fucking was careful. It was _adoring_.

”I told you. I promised you,” Jeremiah panted. “I told you I would give you e-everything you needed.” Bruce was looser, but a little shy of where he needed to be. They were dragged together, practically knotted, the ridge of Jeremiah’s cockhead catching inside Bruce, and the need for harder, rougher, deeper, more, more, deeper, more fought with Jeremiah’s determination to take this slow. And it was beginning to win him over. He adjusted the angle, twisting himself just so and the sound Bruce made when he did made any slight hesitation evaporate in a blink. 

Bruce hitched his legs up higher and his ankles locked around Jeremiah’s back, pulling the two of them impossibly close together. Bruce, the incredible, darling little genius understood at last and Jeremiah was able to free up one hand with the blessing of the new balance, fisting Bruce’s cock in his hand and stroking firmly to match the rhythm. He could feel Bruce’s sounds running through him in a current, thrumming like a bassline in a song. 

“Come for me.” Jeremiah saw Bruce like shapes in a stained-glass window, flashes of ivory and black and dark and light and red, red, red, red. His mind was spinning and it hurt to breathe. “I want you to come for me, Bruce.”

Bruce, with the darling face and body and useage of a doll, grinding and gasping, looked him in the eye. “Make me.”

Which, not even for a second, not even if it was the most erotic thing Jeremiah had ever seen, would let Jeremiah become undone. He shoved Bruce’s legs up higher and drove as deep as he could manage, fucking him in abandon and rapidly jerking his cock. Jeremiah’s senses were white noise, his stomach full to bursting with heat, his thoughts flickering in dead pixels. Bruce clenched around him and spilled onto the sweater as he let out a choked groan. It was enough, it was more than enough, and the candlelight cast tormented shadows across the wall as Jeremiah came. He kissed his own name from Bruce’s lips as he said it, Jeremiah's thrusts shallow and stuttering, Bruce’s tongue in his mouth. Jeremiah wanted hands in his hair, he thought of a honeymoon suite and Bruce underneath him with devoted eyes and a vow on his lips and a ring on his finger and a death wish in his heart, positively disgusting and sick with sentimentality in the most perfect, perfect world where Jeremiah wasn’t so very sick and Jerome’s voice wasn’t worshipping Bruce alongside him in the darkest reaches of his mind—

They were stuck in the haze of post-coitus. 

Jeremiah tried to find his breath again. He gave one last lazy, lazy kiss to Bruce as his brain started to wake back up and he smiled at the little sniffling sound Bruce made. He lifted Bruce back up, settling him back down against the mattress with all the usual care given to a wounded mammal. 

“How was that for you?” Jeremiah asked, exhausted but full of light, exhilarated. Beyond the effect of a drug high. Lighter than he’d ever felt in his life. “I could hear you. I saw you, your lovely face—I saw your _joy_ , Bruce.” 

Bruce was an after-picture in a porn video. He was stained with pearly white, dripping with it, leaking. His blush hadn’t disappeared. “Untie me,” he mumbled. “Please.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Jeremiah pushed himself up on his knees and undid the knot. Bruce exhaled harshly when he was released, wincing, flexing his fingers. He sniffled again, covering his face, his shoulders shaking. 

Jeremiah frowned as he climbed off the bed, threading his fingers through Bruce’s hair. He wished Bruce could feel at least half the ecstasy that he, Jeremiah, did. “It’s normal to be overwhelmed—“

”It’s over,” Bruce said, knocking Jeremiah’s hand away as he looked up. The expression on his face was impossible to categorize, confusion and hatred (no no no no) and sorrow warring with each other in a storm. “You don’t have to touch me anymore. I can’t let you touch me anymore—“ Bruce cut himself off as his tone began to waver and shut down. Unsteady and pried apart, he got to his feet and began to snatch his clothes back up. “You ruined your own memory to me.” 

“Bruce, please, please, please don’t let anything convince you that you were hurt by this. Please. You can’t have only felt pain. You said my name and you said it the way I always knew you would.” Jeremiah walked around to tip Bruce’s chin up and hold his wrists in a familiar grip, but they were fresher now, the skin rubbed down and burning. “You said it like you loved me.” 

Bruce gave a look of rot, something breaking down, crumbling and dirty and unwanted. His breath hissed over his teeth. “It’s difficult,” he managed, unable to hide the tremor in his voice, “to love something without a shred of humanity left in it.”

Jeremiah searched his face, tried to find something else in it, something else to cling to, but there wasn’t any life. No happiness. Nothing lingering from the face Jeremiah had kissed. It was an empty thump in Jeremiah’s chest. 

He released Bruce’s wrists. “You should get dressed,” Jeremiah said, trying to ignore the hollow echo in his voice. “Regardless of how human I am or not, Bruce. . .” He began to button his shirt, watching the twist of Bruce’s mouth. Really. Fascinating. “. . . I at least desire my audience be fully-clothed during theater viewings. I imagine Thomas and Martha feel similarly.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i’m surprised jeremiah got so fucking gay that i was able to use a literal quote not even really taken out of context from him as the title of this fic and i didn’t just pick out lyrics from a holychild song. but if you were interested, i listened to ‘hundred thousand hearts’ by holychild a couple dozen times while i was writing this because it’s _so fucking them it hurts._


End file.
